Aloft in Splendor by StarSpray

Aloft in Splendor

Read Aloft in Splendor

I think that man hath made no beauteous thing
More lovely than a glorious melody
That soars aloft in splendor, full and free,
And graceful as a swallow on the wing!
- “To Melody” by George Leonard Allen

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How quickly tempers and feelings had changed in Camden Place! Anne, though still quiet and calm, was looking forward to a summer wedding in the country and was inclined to be pleased by everything, even in Bath, except that Captain Wentworth had been called away on business for several weeks. Sir Walter was disgruntled and angry with Mr Elliot after his sudden snubbing and removal from their society. Elizabeth was perhaps the worst afflicted, for she had lost a perfectly agreeable companion Mrs Clay just as she suddenly and rather harshly learned that her cousin had not had any intentions toward her at all. Her manners remained impeccable, but she was not so eager to host her own gatherings, and her coldness toward Anne increased, for not only was Anne to be married, but it was she who had caught the attention of Mr Elliot! For how else could one explain Mr Elliot’s sudden quitting of Bath after the engagement to Captain Wentworth was announced? It was hardly any consolation at all that Anne was to marry someone else.

The only consolation to Sir Walter and his daughter was the steady round of card parties and salons and recitals among their circle, and the continued friendship of Lady Dalrymple and her daughter, who congratulated Anne with polite disinterest, and lamented the loss of Mr Elliot from their circle with equal spirit.

One such evening gathering, however, brought a new acquaintance to the Elliots’ attention. He was known to Lady Dalrymple, and had connections to the De Bourgh family, and to the Darcys of Pemberly, and happened to have come to Bath on business that week. “He is a most marvelous musician, however, “Lady Dalrymple told Miss Elliot. “Perfection at the pianoforte! He but rarely comes into company, and so I was quite astonished to learn that he was in Bath! Ah, here he is. Mr Firestone, may I introduce my cousins, Sir Walter Elliot, and his daughters Miss Elizabeth Elliot, and Miss Anne Elliot.”

Mr Firestone was very tall, with bright grey eyes and dark hair that was not held as tidily in his queue as was fashionable—but one hardly noticed, especially when he spoke, for his voice was deep and melodious, and one did not need Lady Dalrymple to say, as he moved away, that he was also a very gifted singer—though he but rarely performed in public. Indeed, she was warmer and more animated in her praise of his talents than Anne had ever seen her before, and she wondered a little at it, and felt sympathy for poor Mr Firestone, so highly talked of when such a thing was likely to lead to disappointment later, when the reality of his talents, however fine, were revealed.

“Now that is a fine figure of a man!” Sir Walter declared as their lady cousin moved on to greet other guests. “Do you not agree, Elizabeth, Anne? A very fine figure of a man indeed. A shame he hasn’t even a baronetcy to his name. Sir Firestone would sound very well, do you not think?” Elizabeth murmured her agreement, eyes following Mr Firestone as he moved across the room, chatting with a few other gentlemen near the windows. When prevailed upon, Anne also voiced her agreement and approbation of his manners and address, and observed that his hands seemed uniquely suited to playing the pianoforte, large and strong-looking, with long fingers.

While the Elliots discussed him, Mr Firestone accepted a glass of wine and allowed Lady Dalrymple to appear again at his side to introduce him to more of her acquaintance. There was much bowing and how-do-you-doing, and if his smile was polite it was also stiff, though there were few to notice. Lady Russel did, however, and when she caught Anne alone she remarked upon it. “I have never heard the name Firestone before, as well,” she said.

“I suppose he spends his time in the north; in Derbyshire, I believe? At least, he has connections there,” Anne replied. “Lady Dalrymple did say he comes seldom into company.”

“An odd practice, for a young man of his stature,” said Lady Russel. “Is he married?”

“I do not know.”

It was not long before Mr Firestone was called upon by Lady Dalrymple to grace them with a performance on the pianoforte. He smiled his acquiescence and took a seat at the bench—and Anne was proved quite wrong in her earlier musings, for his playing far surpassed the praises of their hostess. Even those with no taste for music were caught up in it, as though enchanted. The music was not a piece that Anne knew, and yet she thought it felt familiar. It was melancholy and mournful at one turn, and then bright and triumphant at another, all the while so beautiful that the pianoforte itself seemed almost a different instrument. Surely the same keys would not make those same notes in that way if someone else tried to play. Images seemed to pass through her mind of great figures proud and tall, and beautiful places by the sea and deep in ancient forests, and of a sky filled with stars, as though diamonds had been spilled over the black satin sky—and hanging in the west the brightest star of all, a source of aching grief and yet a brilliant point of lasting hope. She could almost smell the sweet flowers, or the tang of the ocean breeze (and a great longing came over her, rather suddenly, to visit Lyme again). Throughout the music there was sadness and longing, a mourning for the world, and yet also a deep and abiding love for it even as it turned and changed, as mountains rose and fell and rivers changed their courses. There was laughter as well as tears in it, though there were no words at all, and no voice to accompany it.

How long the music lasted, no one could say. It felt like the whole evening had passed, and yet also like no time had passed at all. A hush fell over the room as the last note faded away, and after several moments it was as though they all remembered how to breathe again. Anne even saw her sister dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief, and a soft and wistful look for a moment upon Sir Walter’s face before he recovered.

“Oh my,” Lady Russel murmured, tucking away her own handkerchief. “That was extraordinary. Have you ever heard anything like it?”

“No,” said Anne, “and I do not think we ever shall again.” She turned to look for Mr Firestone, hoping to find him nearby so she could give him her sincerest compliments, and perhaps ask what the song was that he had played and who had written it, but found a murmur going through the room that he was gone—and no one had seen him leave.

Lady Dalrymple, astonishingly, did not seem surprised or offended. “That is his way,” she was heard to say. “Eccentric, you know—but he means no harm by it, and one can forgive anything for a performance such as that!”

“Odd manners,” Sir Walter remarked to Lady Russel, as Elizabeth sighed beside him, “but very talented, I am sure. And such a fine looking man!”